


Crown of Thorns

by anonymouscactus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cheating, F/M, King!Steve Rogers, a boatload of angst, dubcon, this is not a happy one folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-16 13:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouscactus/pseuds/anonymouscactus
Summary: Arranged to be married to the great King Steven, the Reader comes to discover he is not all as she was told. He’s cold and callous and indifferent to their union. Is she really so doomed to live the rest of her life in a loveless marriage?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A new fic that I'm super excited to share with y'all!  


The throne room is cold, feels foreign to you despite how much time you spend here, despite the tapestries strung up along the walls to keep the heat in during the colder months. Your dress, made of a beautiful lilac wool, does nothing for the iciness seeping into your veins. Fingers white-knuckled in the skirt of the gown, pulse racing as panic rises within you, your father’s words merely an echo in the hall.

_ Arranged to be married _ .

They’re not strange words to you. You’re a princess, and marrying a king is your royal duty. You’ve known this is to be your destiny and yet, the idea of it terrifies you, makes a cold sweat break out on your forehead as your Queen mother sits forward in concern. The notion of marrying a man you’ve never met, never even  _ seen _ , makes your hands tremble. The prospect of ruling an entire country makes your knees quake, threatens to buckle them under its weight.

With what feels like water—or is that your blood?—in your ears, you realize your father is still awaiting an answer. Swallowing around the dry lump in your throat, you curtsy, just barely.

“Yes, Father. It would be...it would be…” the words are stuck in your throat. A glance at your mother, an understanding nod, and you press on, “It would be an honor to serve my kingdom.”

Your father is no fool; you know he sees right through it, but he says nothing. Dismisses you with a solemn nod of his head, a frown twitching at his mouth. In a flurry of skirts you skitter back to your room -  _ walk, don’t run _ . Your handmaiden, Wanda, struggles to keep up, and you feel slightly guilty when you close the door to your chambers on her. But, you need time alone, time to think, time to grieve for your soon-to-be-lost freedom, before you’re tied to a man who may very well not be the same kind as your father.

You let loose your panic, your tears, your fears as soon as you hit your feather-bed. The sheets are damp in seconds as you cry, a dark patch in the fabric of your pillow. You hug it tighter to your chest. Soon, you’ll be surrounded by strangers, sleep in a bed that isn’t your own, eat food that tastes odd, learn the alien customs of another nation.

You know it’s your duty,  _ know _ it would come to this at some point, but you’re still shocked, still rendered terrified over the notion of leaving your country. It’s signing away what little freedom you have left - as a princess, you know certain duties and etiquette are required of you, but overall, you have a fairly decent life. You’re allowed to wander the castle and its surrounding grounds, as well as access to the village as long as you take an escort. A small price, you think, to pay for a day outside the castle walls.

Now, you’re sure you’ll be kept inside, forced to curtsy and sew and gossip with the other ladies of the court. Your wings will be clipped and you’ll be caged, left to simply daydream of feeling the sunshine on your skin. The horrifying question makes your lip wobble: what if, in this new country, there is no sunshine? What if it’s a dark and damp and cruel place to live? A place where all color has been smothered in shades of grey.

That thought terrifies you almost more than that of marrying a complete stranger. A man who, for all you know, is unkind and mean and angry. A man who’ll take from you only what he needs - your body - and will otherwise ignore your existence. At least, if there is color in what is to be your new home, you can find some reprieve, some escape. Perhaps a garden to hide away in, a lake or river to sit by and read, lose yourself in stories of true romance, adventure, fantasy.

Wanda comes by later, a meek, shy smile on her face, to bring you food from the dinner you’d missed. You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts, your sadness, you completely ignored the pangs of hunger until your belly lurched sharply.

You eat slowly at the insistence of your handmaiden, who meanwhile prepares a hot bath filled with lovely oils and fresh lavender to relax you. The water is steaming as you lower yourself into the tub, hissing as the hot water scalds your skin in the most comforting way. The aroma of oils and lavender eases your mind, relieves the tension in your shoulders as you sink deeper into the water, until only your head from your nose upward is exposed.

Wanda washes you gently, her nails scraping over your scalp as she scrubs your hair. It nearly lulls you to sleep. Eyelids heavy, your head lolls back and forth on your neck as she scrubs.

“Wanda?” you question sleepily, eyes closed.

“Yes, Princess?”

You open one eye and turn your head to pin her with a look. She simpers, corrects herself and uses your given name. 

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

She doesn’t comment on it, but you know she hears the twinge of fear, of unsureness in your voice behind the sudden exhaustion. Her hands smooth over your hair as she urges you to tilt your head back, allowing her to rinse the suds from your hair. It fans out around you like a halo, the suds providing some mild entertainment for your idle fingers as you wait.

“Nothing could keep me from you, my love,” she assures gently in her pretty accent.

In your sleepy state, it reassures you. At least you won’t be completely alone.

* * *

Two weeks later, your belongings are loaded onto the back of a wagon and a pair of ebony horses are hitched the front of your carriage. They prance and snort, eager to be on their way. You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite.

Your feet feel leaden, frozen to the ground just feet away from the carriage. Fists tangled in your skirts, much like the day you’d been sold to another king. No, you think, not sold - your father loves you too much for that. You know if he’d had any power to stop it, he would have. But in order to build an alliance with the bordering country of Mannheim, he’d had no choice. You understand, fault him not for doing his duty to his kingdom.

He smiles solemnly at you now in the courtyard, adorned in the colors of your country - gold on dusty blue, his doublet emblazoned with the golden rose sigil of your house. Your mother wears charcoal grey, the bodice of the gown embroidered with golden vines that twist and turn downward into the skirt. She’s glassy-eyed, rims red, heartbroken over losing her only daughter. 

You swallow down the tightness in your throat and are urged forward towards the carriage. The boots on your feet scuff along the path, and if it weren’t such a sad day, you know your mother would have your head. Today, though, she seems to care not for your otherwise poor etiquette. She brushes her hands down the sleeves of your gown, smiling wetly before she urges you into the carriage.

It’s a long ride to Mannheim, and though the carriage is spacious, it’s stifling. You fidget in the seat, hands wringing together, then playing with the end of your hair, then tangled in your skirt again. Your mother’s lips are pursed, no doubt in irritation, and you can tell she wants to say something. However, she remains silent and lets you vent out your nervousness.

The carriage dips and rolls, jostles its passengers as the rolling landscape of your country begins to fade. The vibrant green hills turn quickly to dense forestry, shallow rivers and wooden bridges. In the carriage, it’s quiet, until your father begins to speak.

“We’ll be guests of honor for His Highness, King Steven. At the end of the week, he’ll hopefully have come to a decision.”

You scrunch your eyebrows, tilt your head not unlike a curious puppy. “Decision? What decision?”

“The decision to marry you, my dear,” your mother finishes, though she looks a bit sheepish to admit it. You feel cold all of a sudden, despite the cloying humidity that seeps in from the thick trees.

“What? What do you mean? I-I thought the decision had been made? That I was to be his Queen?”

Your father has the grace to look mildly embarrassed. “Well, there is a courting period. A week, usually, during which you’ll spend time with the King and should he desire you, the ceremony shall be had.”

You’re unsure how this makes you feel. Nervous, surely, for now you need to earn the King’s approval. Underneath though, you swear you feel...giddy. Girlish joy at the thought of actually being  _ courted _ like in one of your storybooks. The corners of your mouth twitch just a bit in happy anticipation. Your mother attempts a smile but she looks...troubled, almost, not quite as excited for you. Your father merely averts his eyes out the window.

It’s a mostly quiet ride, peppered conversation here and there about Mannheim, and what life there might entail for you. It doesn’t escape you, however, that both of your parents seem reluctant to discuss in detail your potential betrothed, King Steven. While you’re sure your father wouldn’t sell you off to a brute, there’s a stab of trepidation within your chest. Blunt, but it’s there.

At some point, you end up dozing. Light but restful nap that you’re pulled out of when the carriage lurches hard again. Bleary-eyed, you look out the window, see that the landscape has once again changed. Where there used to be dense forest, now is a flat, golden ocean that ebbs and flows with the breeze. It expands as far as you can see, and while it isn’t the lush green of your country, it isn’t exactly terrible.

There are no clouds in the sky, which is a rich, beautiful blue. It blends perfectly with the hue of the grass, a brilliant bronze that rivals the treasure from your novels. Among the grass you can make out shapes - horses, you think, three of them. All deep blue-black under the rays of the sun. One of them lifts its head, its wide neck arching as it looks towards the caravan.

You’re drawn to them, like something the alchemist calls a magnet. The other two have lifted their heads curiously, watching the caravan as it passes, and then the biggest of the three shakes his head, hooves thundering as he leads the small herd down the hill and out of sight, black muscled bodies rippling, legs lifting high as they gallop away.

“Friesians,” your father supplies, seeing the look of wonderment on your face. “Native to this country. Strong as oxen and just as stubborn. But they bond to their masters like no other horses. They possess a loyalty deeper than I’ve ever seen.”

You smile wistfully at him, listen as he goes on to tell you about how the Friesians had first been tamed. It feels like the time goes faster this way, with your father indulging your childhood fantasies of taming wild horses and riding off into the sun.

The next time you peer out the window, you’re surrounded by a small village. Your father informs you you’re just outside the castle walls. All at once your belly is fluttering with nerves, and you even notice your hands shaking just a little. Swallowing heavily, you assess the village and its inhabitants. Men, women, and children alike stop their chores to gawk at the incoming caravan. 

The colors of Mannheim are far more dull than those of your home. Where a rainbow of greens, yellows, blues, and purples filled the streets with color, here it is a puddle of browns, greys, and dark greens.

Despite the brightness of the grass and sky surrounding, everything else about Mannheim seems far duller.


	2. Chapter 2

The castle looms, tall and unyielding against the summer breeze. Slate grey brick, sand and navy banners billowing from the parapets. Scattered towers here and there, though not nearly as many as yours. Still impressive, still able to make you gawk as the carriage passes under the portcullis. Guards hold banners bearing the sigil of Mannheim - a silver star surrounded by concentric circles in navy and burgundy. One of the odder sigils you’ve seen, but you dare not say it aloud.

This will possibly be your future home; you’d hate to embarrass yourself by insulting its sigil.

People within the walls stop and stare, move closer to the caravan as it enters the gates. The ground is cobblestone. The horses’ hooves echo as they clip-clop through the square. In the center, a massive sculpture has been erected. Six horses, the same build as the Friesians you’d passed in the field, their manes wavy and flowing. They’re arranged in a circle around the sculpture, at the top of which stands a lookalike of your potential future betrothed.

King Steven is regal, broad of shoulder and stunning, even carved in stone. Face drawn tight, a testament to his fierceness on the battlefield. In his left hand he holds a shield, round, with the same star in the center as the banners on the parapets. A sword hangs at his hip, while his right knee is bent, booted foot propped on a stone.

You see it from every angle as the carriage swings around it, comes to a stop outside a pair of grand dark wood doors. A group of people, all nicely, but commonly, dressed wait for you. Flutters in your stomach, you follow your mother out of the carriage, descending carefully down the small steps. A handful of men in royal garb step forward to begin unloading your belongings. 

Meanwhile, a trio of handmaidens, all dressed in pale green gowns approach you, curtsying prettily.

“Your Highness,” greets the middle one, tall and slender and with beautiful blonde hair, “welcome to Mannheim. My name is Sharon, and this is Leah and Tilda. We’re to be your personal handmaidens.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” you politely respond. Sharon’s gentle nature seems to calm you, washing over you like a warm bath. She smiles with her teeth as she sees you visibly relax.

“If you will, Your Highness, I will show you to your room. I’m sure you’re weary after such a long journey. Perhaps a bath before dinner?”

You nearly moan at the prospect of a hot soak, your cramped muscles nearly shrieking in excitement. Sharon smirks, apparently seeing your thoughts openly on your face, and begins to lead you into the castle. She speaks hurriedly to the other ladies, who nod and scamper off in opposite directions.

You look back at your Queen Mother, who watches you go with a soft, yet slightly mournful expression. Catching your eye, she quickly smiles at you, and while you find it in you to smile back, that previous look stays planted in your mind. You know your mother and father are hiding something from you, something about your future husband. Perhaps you’ll inquire later, after dinner.

Inside, the castle is warm from the summer sun. The grey brick walls are nearly completely hidden behind tapestries and artwork. Beautiful bronze sconces line the hallways, their flames bright and further warming the interior. The tapestries are magnificent, hand-woven you’re told by Sharon, imported from India. Patterns in blue and burgundy and gold, others in deeper navies, black, and silver.

The artwork is extraordinary - meticulous brushstrokes that depict the landscape of Mannheim. The familiar gold of its grasslands, rich blues of rivers you’ve yet to see. Deep greens of a forest you’re dying to explore. It’s all entranced you, and Sharon smirks a little knowingly as you lose yourself in the decor.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur wistfully, tentatively brushing your fingers along a tapestry at Sharon’s approving nod. “We’ve nothing like this at home… Nothing so fine.”

True, your castle at home boasts valuables - some artwork, a few treasures brought back by explorers from distant lands - but nothing quite like this. Mannheim is wealthy it seems, in ways your country is not. Sharon means to lead you further into the castle, but a massive floor-to-ceiling painting draws your attention.

It’s a portrait of King Steve, astride a massive Friesian as it charges into battle. Wielding his shield, his sword extended, a battle-hardened expression on his painted face, which is spattered with ruby. He’s handsome, dreamily so, and you find yourself drifting closer as if in a trance, procured by a mere  _ painting _ .

What will you do when you’re face to face with him?

Swallowing nervously, you look to Sharon, who’s regarding you gently, patiently, while you look over your suitor. Twisting your hands, you look to your feet, breathing deeply to give yourself the courage to ask:

“What is he like? King Steven?”

“He is very kind, Your Highness. Noble, honorable, loyal down to his very bones. But he is...reckless, shall we say. He often puts the wellbeing of others above that of himself,” she answers with a bit of a smirk before it softens into a smile. “He will make a wonderful husband, Your Highness.”

It placates you a bit, and you give the painting one last, long glance before you allow Sharon to lead you further into the castle. Up a flight of wide, curving stairs, down another hallway - this one carpeted but no less beautifully furnished. A large red oak door is where she stops, curls her slender hands around the golden handles and pushes them open.

You gasp aloud at the room. Large, bright with natural sunlight that pours in through the tall windows. Gold accents against the deep slate blue of the walls. Large, four-poster featherbed, cream blankets and a fur that may have come from a wolf. A vanity sits by one of the large windows, adjacent to a massive stone fireplace. It’s a gorgeous room, one you’re looking forward to spending time in.

Two handmaidens enter the room moments later, bearing a large tub between them. They set it down before the fire, nodding politely at Sharon. As the tub is then filled with steaming water, even more servants, male and female, bustle in and out of your room, moving the belongings you’ve brought with you for the week-long stay. Your gowns are hung in the chestnut wardrobe, your jewelry displayed neatly on the vanity.

Floral scents fill your nose as oil is poured into your bath. The calming scent of lavender, the fresh aroma of roses. You’re practically foaming at the mouth, desperate to sink under the hot water and rinse the day’s journey from your skin.

Before you can, however, a familiar head of brunette hair bounces into the room, and you beam excitedly.

“Wanda!” Curse propriety, you hug your handmaiden and friend, and to your surprise as you look over her shoulder, Sharon is smiling - not shocked by the casualness of your embrace, not affronted. Pulling away, you brush your hands down her hair. “I hope the journey was not too rough for you.”

“Not at all. I had wonderful company.” Teasing, a light blush on her cheeks, and you know, eyebrows raising coyly.

“Oh? Ser Vision, I presume?”

“You presume correct, my lady.” Wanda giggles before she remembers herself as Sharon steps forward.

“Oh, Wanda! May I present Sharon? She’ll be my handmaiden as well.”

The two women regard each other pleasantly, smiling and curtsying to one another. You watch on gleefully. Knowing the two will get along and become friends takes some pressure off of you. Wanda had mostly kept to herself at home, most of the other maids and servants well over her age, making it hard for her to connect.

Here, it doesn’t seem to be an issue. Sharon is closer to her age, you assume, and the other two maids, Leah and Tilda, seemed so as well. You’re happy for your friend. You only hope you’ll find the same amongst the royal court - should you become a part of it.

Together Sharon and Wanda help you into your bath, stripping your dress and undergarments from you and setting them aside to be washed. You can’t help the satisfied sigh that leaves you as you lower yourself carefully into the cloudy water. The heat of it is already working the stiffness out of your muscles.

Wanda and Sharon let you soak a little before they both begin scrubbing you down with even more pretty soaps and oils. Wanda takes to your hair, scratching your scalp with her nails as she works through the strands. Sharon is tender in her ministrations, washing your body like she would a baby’s. She giggles as you flinch when she gets to your feet, the sponge tickling the soles of them.

Once you’re clean, Wanda fetches a clean dress and underclothes from your new wardrobe. This one is a pretty pale blue, and you idly notice it matches the color of Steve’s eyes in his portrait. As they dress you, a sharp inhale when Wanda tightens the bodice, you think about your future betrothed and all you’ve learned of him so far.

Will he approve of you? You’re pretty, you think. You like the way you look, but after seeing  _ Steve _ , you can’t help but wonder if he’s out of your league. Despite your own title as a princess, Steve is roguishly handsome, even for a king, and you hope you can step up as his equal - as his queen. You hope you can measure up.

A pale silver necklace against your collarbone brings you out of your thoughts. Wanda smiles at you in the mirror, a little concerned as she clasps it at the back of your neck. It’s cool against your skin, a dainty white blossom and at the center, a deep red ruby.

“Are you all right?” she asks, hushed. Sharon is busying herself at the vanity, arranging a variety of makeup and pointedly not looking at the two of you to give you some privacy. You’ve known her an hour and you’re already grateful for her.

You hum. “Yes, I suppose. I just...what if he doesn’t like me?”

“Then he’s a fool,” is her immediate response. Turning wide, worried eyes to Sharon, your mouth drops open when you see the mirth shining in her eyes, the amused smirk on her face.

You can’t help it, you giggle madly and the two handmaidens are quick to join in. It comes to a screeching halt, however, when you spy your Queen Mother in the mirror, standing just inside the doorway with raised eyebrows, though you can see a hint of a smile on her face.

“Mother.” You quickly curtsy, and your two handmaidens follow, bowing even lower than you.

“Your Grace,” they chime in unison.

“Are you nearly ready for dinner, my love?” your mother asks, reaching out to run your hair through her fingers. She shifts it over your shoulders, freeing your neck and the necklace, smiles lovingly. “You look beautiful, my dear. Fit for a king.”

_ Am I? _ you ask yourself, hoping it doesn’t read too much in your eyes.

But your mother knows you well, and she laughs a little. “Relax, dove. King Steven is a wonderful man. He’ll adore you.”

The look on her face in the carriage shows itself in your mind, an expression of such uncertainty while your father told you of King Steve, that you’re almost offended she’s placating your insecurities like this.  _ A wonderful man, Mother? Then why did you look as if I was to be fed to the wolves? _

But you brush it aside, let her speak her praises of you for now. Sliding into a pair of silver boots, you’re about ready for dinner - to be presented to the King. Sharon dabs perfume on your wrists and under your jaw, a wonderful fragrance of vanilla, peonies, and something woodsy; then she applies light makeup - some rouge to your lips and powder to your cheeks - while Wanda ties your hair back prettily with a crescent-moon-shaped clasp. 

Steeling your nerves, you allow your handmaidens to escort you from the room behind your mother. You’re lead down a new hallway this time, deeper into the castle. More artwork hangs on the walls, though on the opposite side, stained glass windows catch the setting sun, throwing glittering reflections onto the stone floor.

Ahead, a massive set of oak doors, similar to yours, loom tall, flanked by two guards. The men reach to open them, revealing a great hall, open with vaulted ceilings and even more beautiful stained glass windows. A large chandelier of candles hangs above, and iron sconces light the room. Inside, there are close to two hundred people, and all of them begin to kneel as you and your mother step inside.

Your father is already seated at the table upon the dais, surrounded by who you assume are King Steven’s closest friends and allies. The large, black, wing-backed chair in the center, though, is empty. Withholding the frown fighting to break through, you swallow it back, smile gently and properly at the guests who kneel before you.

You take your place between your mother and father, and chatter resumes for a while as the noblemen and women of the court take their seats. Your goblet is filled with fragrant red wine, and tentatively you take a sip. It’s slightly bitter, but it dulls the flutters in your belly, so you drink again.

All at once the noise stops. Silence fills the hall as the doors once again open to reveal a tall, massive man, dark blonde hair swept back off his face, which is covered by a thick beard.

King Steven.

Even without introduction you’d know him. He’s as regal as his statue, as his portrait, standing tall, wide shoulders straight, as he enters the hall. He dons a deep blue doublet with burgundy and gold accents, the colors of his kingdom, and matching trousers. Black riding boots on his feet, ornamental sword at his hip.

You rise with the rest of your family; your father steps around the table, greeting the other king as if they’re old friends. There’s only a hint of a smile on King Steven’s face as he greets your father, embracing him loosely. Briefly his eyes flit to yours, and you stiffen.

His gaze is stoic, empty, and your stomach feels heavy.


	3. Chapter 3

Beneath your gown, your knees quake. King Steven is even more handsome up close, practically carved from marble. He’s perfect - except for his eyes. His eyes, which stare you down, their icy blue depths void and emotionless. His jaw is tight as he appraises you, sweeping up and down your body. You feel both hot and cold under the weight of it, stomach torn between fluttering nerves and rolling nausea.

Remembering yourself, you curtsy low, managing not to stumble. When you straighten, it takes him a solid thirty seconds for him to bow at the waist. It’s a stiff movement, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you as he returns to his full height. You wish you could see what he’s thinking. Does he approve of you? Do you disgust him? He’s so carefully closed off you don’t know one way or another.

Around you, it’s silent in the hall. The noblemen and women watch on with interest, curiosity piqued that their King may have found his Queen. Your father watches on, a smile on his face that slowly fades as the two of you appraise one another. Suddenly, you’re not so sure about this at all.

You begin to feel awkward, standing before King Steven as he continues his silent appraisal, and you have to look away. Down at your hands as you fist them in your skirts, at your father who’s now looking worriedly between you.

Then the king moves, extends his arm for you to take to lead you back up the dais. You hope the utter relief doesn’t show on your face as you gently rest your hand atop his. It’s warm, but the bones and tendons are stiff, twitching, as if he’s trying to keep from balling it into a fist. He guides you slowly to your chair, now beside his so that the two of you might converse over dinner.

But you don’t.

It’s silent between you and King Steven seems to be doing all he can to avoid both looking at you and addressing you. He seems to focus somewhere off to the back of the room mostly, eyes flitting around his guests. Taking a drink from your wine, you rack your mind for a conversation starter.

“You have very beautiful horses in your country,” you begin, hope dwindling as Steven remains silent. His jaw is noticeably clenched, muscle jumping as he busies himself with food and drink. Inside your chest, your heart sinks. You try again, “Do you enjoy riding?”

Steven sighs quietly, catching the eye of someone across the room. Pursing his lips against the burn of his mead, he finally regards you. Ice-blue eyes blank, they sweep over your expression, which is quickly growing hopeful at his attention.

“Yes, I enjoy riding.” His answer is short, stiff, but you feel some relief anyways. He hasn’t relaxed, but he’s speaking to you, so you’ll take it. “Do you?”

“Oh, I-I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to, Your Grace.” Now you’re a little embarrassed, broaching a topic of which you know very little. “Women aren’t permitted to ride like men are in my country.”

“Have you never sat a horse?” he asks curiously, angling his body towards yours, and you almost hate how quickly you perk up. His eyes are still guarded, but at least he’s speaking to you - a far cry from how dismissive he’d been.

When you shake your head, he almost seems amused. Something else unrecognizable passes over his eyes, but it’s gone rapidly, replaced by that stony blankness you’re beginning to dislike.

He slices into a bit of meat with his knife, speaks around a mouthful, “A Queen who can’t ride - imagine that.”

It stings, but you manage to hide it. You turn to your own food and eat slowly, your stomach rolling with discomfort, sadness, and anger. Your mother assured you he’d love you, and yet he can’t stand to be in your presence, much less hold a conversation with you. How are you supposed to marry such a man - if he’ll even agree to marry you?

While the clamor in the hall continues, you find yourself utterly alone. Steven has turned to address someone to whom you’ve not been introduced. Your parents chit chat with the nobles beside them. As you look frantically around the room, you jump at a gentle hand on your shoulder.

Sharon frowns down at you with nothing but concern, no doubt reading the growing panic on your face.

“Your Grace, are you well?” she asks, low enough that only you hear. Steven casts her a curious glance but pays her no mind, essentially blocking the two of you out by turning his back to you.

Swallowing, you straighten your shoulders and nod. You’re a princess, dammit, and you’ll present yourself as such.

“I am just fine, Sharon. Thank you.”

She wants to argue, it’s clear on her face, but after a few moments of scrutiny, she nods and backs away. You appreciate the care she already has for you, truly, but you refuse to let anyone, much less a king, make you feel small. So while King Steven continues to ignore you, you let yourself enjoy the work of his cooks.

Roasted meats, spiced vegetables, honeyed breads. You don’t indulge in too much wine, preferring to be of sound mind for the festivities. King Steven has made no attempts to engage you in conversation again, so you opt to watch the interactions. There’s laughter, jokes traded between noblemen, while the women roll their eyes and undoubtedly gossip amongst each other. 

Once dinner ends, music replaces the sounds of silverware on plates. The center of the hall is opened up to a dance floor, and nobles all around the room begin to rise. Pair up and flurry about in beautiful ripples of colored fabric. The music itself is beautiful - a bit less lively than what you’re used to, but pretty regardless, and you feel yourself swaying in your seat.

Occasionally, you catch Steven watching you, an unreadable look in his eyes that you choose to disregard. The middle of the crowd opens up when a pair of enthusiastic dancers steal the show. The music picks up and the dancers twirl, leap, and spin to the new melody; you begin to clap along, a genuine laugh rippling from your throat as you watch them.

Even when you catch Steven’s eye, catch the thoughtful frown on his lips, you can’t bring yourself to stop. It’s contagious, the excited, happy energy in the room, and while your home had frequent parties, you can’t remember any of them being like this. This lively and jovial.

“My dear.” Your father’s voice makes you jump, so enchanted by the frivolity. He holds out a hand to you. “Would you do me the honor?”

Smiling, you accept your father’s hand and rise, casting a quick glance at Steven. He’s staring out at the crowd intensely, a million emotions flickering across his gaze that you don’t have the chance to identify.

The music slows, just a little, as you and your father join the throng. Your dress’s skirt billows out as your father twirls you around, leads your steps gracefully. The smile is beginning to hurt your cheeks as he dips you and spins you under his arm. His matching grin is bright, his cheeks ruddy from drink and merriment.

It’s as he’s spinning you again, the music shifting again to something faster, more upbeat that makes it harder for you to keep up, that you see Steven rise from his seat. He looks to you for only a moment, before he stares off at something on the other side of the hall, but there are too many people for you to see clearly what he’s looking at. As he steps down from the dais, his dark blonde head disappears into the crowd of people. 

You’re a little disappointed that he hadn’t come to dance with you, hoping that dancing would liven him up, make him warm up to you. The feeling, though, is swept away as you’re swept around the room.

Two more lively songs pass, the last one you choose to sit out, before Steven returns again, looking flustered. His cheeks are tinged light pink, and you assume it’s from drink because he quickly downs an entire goblet of mead. The amber liquid drips down his chin towards his doublet, and it takes immense self-control not to reach out and brush it away.

So preoccupied are you with staring at Steven, that you completely miss the derisive look your father sends him from a few seats down. Steven barely spares you a glance, brushing your curiosity away with a wave of his hand for his goblet to be refilled. 

You’re not sure why you say it, or where the courage comes from, but you say it anyways. “You haven’t asked me to dance.”

The change is instant. The air around you growing cold as Steven tenses. He fixes frigid, hard blue eyes on you, jaw clenched tight, and you feel yourself tremble.

“I won’t be asking you to dance,” he seethes, low and venomous.

You don’t speak another word for the remainder of the evening.

It’s a sullen walk back to your room. After Steven had so brusquely brushed you off, you took Sharon up on her offer of taking you back to your room, feigning illness. Wanda joins you, the two of them at your side, not touching as is propriety, but close enough you feel their body heat. It’s comforting, sort of, until you’re so warm you realize it’s anger.

“You told me he was kind,” you accuse Sharon, softly but firmly once back in your bedroom. She’s taken aback, rightfully so, as this is your first night. You should feel slightly guilty, attacking one of Steven’s hired help in such a way, but tonight was… Tonight was a failure, through and through. And you’re angry - hurt, and angry.

“He is, Your Grace, I assure you.” She tries to assuage you, holds out her hands in a show of vulnerability as she pleads with you. “Perhaps he… Perhaps he too is nervous. Maybe even a little unwilling?”

You take offense, and you know it shows on her face as she backtracks. Wanda, sensing Sharon’s rising anxiety and need to fix this, steps in.

“What she means, my love, is that marriage is...first and foremost, a duty. One’s duty to his kingdom, and it is not an easy notion to accept. Perhaps King Steven is as nervous and unsure as you are?”

Her answer makes sense. You twist your mouth in thought, let your anger ebb away a bit. You hadn’t thoroughly considered that marriage is as big a change for you as it is for King Steven. The pressure from the courts that he take a wife, a woman he’s never met yet is expected to spend the rest of his life with, birth children with. It’s quite a deal of pressure for both of you, and while you’re taking it in stride as best you can, His Grace seems adamant in digging in his heels.

You dismiss Sharon and Wanda after they ready you for bed, a simple cream nightdress that touches the floor. The bed itself is about the softest one you’ve ever laid in, the mattress conforming to your shape perfectly. You can’t help it, you sigh happily and hug the equally-soft pillow to your face. The furs atop the bed keep the warmth in, and it doesn’t take too long for your busy mind to shut off for the night.


End file.
